


Counterpoint

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Music, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(n.) <em>Music</em>: The technique of combining two or more melodic lines in such a way that they establish a harmonic relationship while retaining their linear individuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterpoint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mid0nz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mid0nz/gifts).



> Mid0nz asked for a drabble in which "Sherlock realizes he has theme music! *chin hands*"
> 
> What started as a silly little blatant disregard for the fourth wall got a little out of hand.

“John, what the hell is this?”

He jerked awake, reflexes honed from years in the army and living with Sherlock jolting him out of the bed before he had really comprehended what was going on. Then, upon realising that, no, there wasn’t actually a crisis, he groaned and rubbed at his eyes. It was three o’clock in the bloody morning, actually, and he had to be at the clinic in five hours and they’d just finished up a case that had them outside in the rain all day. All he had wanted to do was get a decent amount of sleep for once, but there was no helping it. He shuffled out into the sitting room, making sure Sherlock knew he wasn’t pleased about being awake.

“What is this?” he repeated.

“That’s my laptop,” John answered.

“Yes, I think we’ve been over that, I meant-”

“Wait,” John interrupted. “How could you possibly – the password was just a string of random letters and numbers, I thought I’d finally beaten you this time!”

“I have to admit, you would have, if you had actually bothered to memorise said password instead of writing it on a post-it note and sticking it on your screen.”

Oh. Well.

“Is that my blog?”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said in frustration.

“Thought you didn’t like my blog.”

“Unimportant. What. Is. This?”

“It’s…my blog,” John said again, feeling like he was missing something. It was too damn early for this. “It’s the case we had last month about the husband cheating on his wife with two imaginary women. I know you thought it was dull, but certainly you haven’t deleted it yet.”

“No, I mean the horrible music coming out of your speakers.”

“Oh, that. It’s your theme song.”

“My what?” he said dangerously.

“Your theme song,” John replied, beginning to smirk now. “Some of your fans really like that you play the violin, so they wrote that and sent it to me. I thought it was nice, and now it’s set to auto-play on the blog.”

“Turn it off.”

“Did you miss the auto-play part? Anyone who’s visited that page in the past few hours since I put it on tonight has already heard it, anyways. Besides, it sort of fits, doesn’t it? It’s all daring and exciting. Makes you seem like a superhero, having your own theme music.”

“It sounds like a convoluted polka band. And the synthetic strings are horrendous,” Sherlock sniffed, the picture of indignation.

“Yeah, well they’re just a couple fans of yours, it’s not like they had access to the BBC orchestra or something. And be nice, it’s not every day someone writes you a theme song. You can just mute it if you don’t like it. I’m going back to bed. Do _not_ make any comments on the blog about that music, Sherlock, they tried really hard. Don’t be a dick, just this once, alright?”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you, too. Are you coming to bed?” he asked, noticing Sherlock smiling a little despite himself out of the corner of his eye.

“In an hour or two.”

* * *

John really shouldn’t have laughed. He really, _really_ shouldn’t have. But it was just too good to resist.

Lestrade had called them out for another case, a locked room double murder that Sherlock had practically been drooling over. But something was slightly off; Donovan and Anderson kept shooting smirks at each other across the room, and even Lestrade looked like he was struggling not to start chuckling about something. It got so obvious that Sherlock had actually stopped and looked himself over, making sure he hadn’t done something ridiculous (well, more ridiculous than normal) or that none of the Yarders had taped another sign on his back. But Lestrade just waved him on, telling him to keep investigating the corpses. John tried to catch his eye and ask what was up, but the DI just smiled and shook his head.

By that point, Sherlock had sighed dismissively at the bodies and informed them all that it was pathetically simple: the first of them had poisoned the second, but the second managed to get a shot off, toss the gun out of the window and lock it again before she died. The gun had fallen into the skip and been removed before they arrived. It wasn’t anywhere near the 8 Lestrade had promised.

It was still impressive, of course, but before John could get out the customary “amazing” or “brilliant,” there was the sound of several phones being unlocked and suddenly all playing the music off of his blog at slightly different speeds.

Sherlock slowly raised his head up from the corpses to stare at all of them, looking much more like a horror villain than a superhero, and that seemed to be too much for Anderson and Donovan. The pair of them started laughing and clutching their sides, and one of the younger constables was making a fool of himself by falling to the ground. And John couldn’t help joining in, it _was_ funny. The glare Sherlock shot him as he stalked out of the room could have given Mycroft pause.

“You don’t think that was too cruel, John, do you?” Lestrade asked, wiping away tears as they heard the door to the building slam shut. “They even asked me about it before they did it, but it seemed pretty tame in comparison.” Which was true; playing music specifically written for Sherlock did seem a lot nicer than some of the invective he’d heard over the years.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” John said, hoping it was true. “You know him, he’s like a peacock. Give him a few days to sulk about his damaged pride and he’ll be back on your crime scenes in no time.” But he wasn’t even waiting for John outside, and wasn’t answering his texts. Damn it. John managed to catch a cab back to Baker Street, only to find Sherlock standing by the fire with his violin.

“Sherlock I, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for someone to make fun of you with it. I’ll take it down if you want.” Sherlock grunted noncommittally and kept up tuning the E string. Then John noticed that his laptop, the blog still open and playing that damn song, was sitting on the floor next to him. “What are you doing?”

“It was missing something,” he shrugged. “I can hardly have a theme song that doesn’t reference my blogger, can I?”

“You’re – what? Writing me a second part?”

“Counterpoint to the original,” Sherlock answered easily. “Both of the lines are equally important to the overall structure and sound.”

“Sherlock…”

“The line they already gave me was clearly meant to be an upper part,” Sherlock continued on, as if he wasn’t currently making one of the most romantic gestures of his life. “So I’m writing yours to be the lower part. It’s more stable, helps determine which harmonies the upper line was implying.” And John honestly had no idea how to respond to that. His vision was going slightly blurry. But he really felt he had to say something, so he settled on practical.

“Do you want Indian tonight?”

“Pork vindaloo and saag paneer for me. From the good place across town?” The one that refused to deliver to them, he meant, since _someone_ had once answered the door for them in the middle of an experiment and accidentally poisoned the delivery person with noxious fumes.

“Yeah, alright.” And then, just to be sure that he’d read the signals correctly: “You weren’t really that mad at them today, were you? That was just for show.”

“I would prefer if it didn’t happen again,” he admitted. “But as pranks go, it was certainly not repulsive.”

“I love you, you ridiculous drama queen,” John said, reaching up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek as the man preened at him. “Are you going to let me hear it?”

“When it’s ready.” John just nodded, making his way into the kitchen to search for their stack of takeaway menus. And maybe some tea.

“John?” he called back, looking content and relaxed, the violin at his shoulder gleaming in the firelight. “I do, as well.”


End file.
